Just A High
by ipreferwestside
Summary: "He likes this side of her, a side he's never seen, the soft, vulnerable, slightly clingy Kate. It's such a stark contrast to who he sees on a daily basis, different even from the glimpses of vulnerability she's allowed him to see, and he really likes it." A post-2x18 AU.
1. Chapter 1

**JUST A HIGH**

 _I ain't hung up on you  
I ain't in love with you  
This is just time that I'm wasting  
One or two little sips  
I'm alright, I can quit_  
 _You're just some wine that I'm tasting_

 _Relapse_ \- Carrie Underwood

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

His phone buzzes with the text long after his mother and Alexis have gone to bed, as he fights to stay awake. It's still early for him, just after ten, but after the chaos of the last two days, he's ready to collapse.

Beckett had sent him home shortly after seven, with the assurance that there was no end in sight to her paperwork, and he should be home with his family. He'd given her his key so she could come and go as she pleased, but he still wants to stay up, doesn't want her to come in to a quiet, dark apartment after such a taxing case.

One look at his phone, though, and he knows she won't be coming home to a quiet, dark apartment. At least, not alone.

 _I might stop for a drink, care to join me?_

He sits up straight as he swipes the screen, bringing up his messages to reply. He can make her a drink at home, but he knows what she's like after a case, what she must feel right now. She's probably wired, and needs to calm down before heading back to his apartment. So her delaying her return isn't unexpected.

He didn't, however, expect the invitation. But he definitely won't pass it up.

 _Absolutely, tell me where._

He meets her a couple blocks away, in a dive bar he's never heard of, that's tucked away between a restaurant and a bookstore. She's at the counter, a drink in her hand already, a second one in front of the seat next to her. Her eyes meet his when he approaches, and he can tell that she's tired, but she smiles when he sits.

"Fancy meeting you here," she says in greeting, her voice low and sultry.

He isn't sure if her tone is because of the alcohol, or something else, so he just taps his glass against hers and downs what turns out to be _very_ nice scotch. "Thanks for the invite."

She shrugs and turns back to face the bar. "Sometimes a girl just doesn't want to drink alone. Or," she continues before he can respond, "at home. I needed to get out for a few hours. You know?"

"I know." They fall silent, and he finishes his drink, motions for another. "Helluva case, huh?"

"Castle?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we not talk about work?"

"Of course."

They sip in silence for a couple more drinks each; he's content to just enjoy each other's company, but she seems restless. She's fidgeting; her leg starts bouncing on the rung of her stool during drink number three, and after several minutes he can't stand the jostling anymore.

"Beckett," he says in a low voice, his hand landing on the top of her thigh. She tenses under his touch, and he worries he's crossed the line, but before he can withdraw his hand, hers is on top of his.

She turns to look at him, and her gaze is dark, wild. "Let's get out of here," she husks, her eyes flicking down to his lips.

He pays for their drinks in record time, almost stumbling off the stool from the combination of the alcohol and the sudden arousal that floods through his system. The cold March air hits him like a brick, and he wraps his scarf tight around his neck, head swiveling to look for Kate.

She's at the corner looking down the street, and he approaches in silence, not wanting to startle her. It's when his gaze follows hers that he realizes what she's looking towards.

They're just blocks from her apartment.

Her apartment that blew up 24 hours ago.

 _Oh._

"It'll get rebuilt," he reassures her, resisting the urge to put a reassuring hand on her back. They don't do this, they don't touch, but his fingers itch to touch her, to curl his fingers around her waist and tug her into his body. "You'll be back in no time."

She huffs and turns back to him. "I'm going to start looking for a new place tomorrow," she insists. "I can't wait that long."

"You can stay with me as long as you'd like, you know."

"I know." She gives him a small smile before moving in the direction of his apartment. "Come on, Castle."

She slips her arm through his after half a block, and when they stop at the crosswalk she drops her head to his shoulder.

He likes this side of her, a side he's never seen, the soft, vulnerable, slightly clingy Kate. It's such a stark contrast to who he sees on a daily basis, different even from the glimpses of vulnerability she's allowed him to see, and he really likes it. He could get used to walking arm-in-arm with her through the streets of their city.

They're at his building before he knows it, and she steps away from him before stepping inside. He immediately mourns the loss of contact, but it's not for long, because she's at his side once again when they're in the elevator. This time her hand slips through his and he jerks at the feel of her cold skin against his.

"Sorry," she whispers, barely audible even in the enclosed space of the lift.

He glances down at her. Her teeth are worrying her bottom lip, and - _oh_ \- that drives him crazy. It always has, ever since he saw her do it that first night, when she'd questioned him in interrogation. And it does even more now, more than her teasing and innuendos.

He shouldn't be thinking about her like this, not when they're both exhausted and a little tipsy and-

Her gaze lifts to his, and her cheeks flush even after he flicks his back to her eyes. They're dark, the usual gold and green darkened to a stormy brown, and she doesn't take them off his lips, not even when she turns to face him, grabs the lapels of his coat, and seals her mouth over his.

He's thought about this thousands of times, wondered how she'd taste, fantasized about how her body would fit against his. And as she curls her fingers through his hair and nudges his lips apart with her tongue, he knows that even his most vivid fantasies are nothing like the real thing.

And kissing Kate Beckett won't be enough.

His hands drop to her hips and he pulls her flush against him, meeting her tongue with his, a groan escaping from deep in his throat when their bodies align. In her heels she's almost as tall as him, and he loves it, loves that it makes them equal in this quest for dominance.

Well, the quest that he's letting her win.

Because the simple act of her nudging him against the elevator wall and pinning him there has his arousal heightening, his blood boiling, and they need to be in his bedroom before they give anyone a show.

She pulls away from him when the elevator announces its arrival at his floor, and she backs against the far wall, her lips swollen and her chest heaving. They just stare at each other until the door opens, and then she's grabbing his hand and pulling him into the hallway.

She shoves him against the wall before they're even at his door, before he can reach for his key, and his hips jerk when she palms him through his jeans. He's hard already, throbbing, desperate, and he needs relief. He aches to feel her mouth around him, her tongue devastating him, but when she reaches for his belt he nudges her away.

"Inside," he gasps when she chases his mouth, and he manages to dig his keys out of his pocket, despite her hands tugging at the hem of his sweater. His stomach clenches when she splays her palm over his torso, her fingers cold. "Shi-"

He finally slips his key into the lock, despite Kate draped along his back, her fingers sneaking below his waistband. He grabs her hand when she unhooks his belt; the last thing he wants to do is come before he even has a chance to taste her, to feel her around him.

They're a tangle of limbs when they stumble through the door, and he takes advantage of the privacy, pins her against it with his body. She grunts when she hits it, fingers coming up to grip his hair while his drift down to her ass. He slips his thigh between her legs and groans when she grinds down onto him; she gasps and throws her head back, and he trails his lips across her cheek, down her jaw. He nips at her ear, tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin below her earlobe, along the long line of her neck to her collarbone.

His teeth scrape against her skin when her nails sink into his scalp, and he lets go of her ass, moves his hands to the front of her jeans. "Oh hell," he mumbles when he slips one hand inside her underwear, finding her soaked, and he can't help but wonder how long she's been like this. How long she's wanted him.

He chuckles when she whimpers at the touch of his fingers, but withdraws his hand when she curls her leg around his hips. "Not yet," he murmurs against her skin, pulling away, batting her hands from where she's assaulting his pants yet again. "Bedroom."

When he makes her come, he doesn't want it to be from a quick fuck against the door. Not yet. He wants to see her in his bedroom, see what she looks like against his grey sheets, on his pillow.

"Hurry the fuck up," she snaps, grabbing his waistband and tugging him towards his room.

* * *

He was right.

She looks great on his bed.

She'd torn off her sweater and jeans on her way through his office, and he has no idea where they are, just hopes that they're at least out of the living room. She sits on his bed and reaches for his pants - she keeps doing that, despite his best efforts to get her to just _slow down._

He tugs his sweater off, not missing the quick swipe of her tongue over her lips, and can't help but puff his chest out a little. He may write for a living, but he does stay fit as well as he can, and he's especially proud of his chest, thank you very much. He wants to be strong for her, and judging by the way her eyes darken as he steps closer to her, she likes it too.

"Are you gonna take your pants off, or what?" she asks in a low voice, sultry, looking up at him through her lashes.

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "In a minute."

"Castle."

"Patience, Detective." He nudges her shoulders, one knee on the mattress beside her, kneeling over her as she _finally_ takes the hint and leans back. He kisses her, slow and deep, their tongues meeting in a languid dance, the taste of scotch and desperation on her tongue.

She arches off the bed when his hands draw the straps of her bra down her arms, and she reaches behind her own back to unclasp it. She flings it off the bed and he hears it flutter to the floor, but he doesn't care where it lands, only cares about the goddess he's staring at.

In all his dreams, his fantasies, all the times he's imagined what she looks like beneath the blouses and jackets and slacks that make her legs go for miles, they've all failed to live up to reality. His highest expectations have been exceeded.

She's perfect.

And he's ruined.

He trails his lips down her neck again, nipping at her collarbone on his way to her chest. Her fingers find purchase in his hair, and he uses her grip to gauge her reaction to his touch. His lips wrap around one nipple, teeth barely scraping, and she arches into him, locks her legs around his waist. He cups her other breast in his hand, brushes his thumb against the hard nipple, and she whimpers.

 _Holy shit,_ he just made Kate Beckett whimper.

Yeah, he wants to hear it again.

So he kisses his way to her other breast, only this time when he nips at her she gasps, and holds his head to her chest. She's rocking her hips against him, and he can feel her, how wet she is, even through the thin fabric of her panties, through his jeans. One hand leaves his hair to sneak between them, but he grabs her wrist, pins it above her head. "Not yet," he says, almost a growl. He's almost shaking with arousal, his erection desperate for relief, to be released from the confines of his jeans. At this rate, he'll be lucky if he doesn't come in his pants.

"Please," she gasps, and as much as he wants to taste her, he can't. Not now.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of her underwear and draws the small scrap of fabric down her long, perfect legs, throws them somewhere behind him. And this time when she reaches for his pants he lets her unbuckle them, groans when she draws the zipper down. Slowly.

Oh, she's evil, if the glint in her eye and quirk of her lips is any indication. He's made her wait, so she's returning the favor.

Fuck that.

He stands, withdrawing himself from her embrace, and tugs his pants and boxers off in one fell swoop, almost groans in relief. She licks her lips again, eyes on his erection, and he kneels over her once again, lines his cock up with her folds. He swipes a finger through her, teases her entrance, hesitates before nudging his tip into her.

"Do I need a-"

"Pill," she gasps, shaking her head, surging forward to claim his mouth with hers. "I'm clean. Please, Rick. I just need-"

Her words are cut off by a gasp as he sinks into her.

* * *

He thought she was perfect before, when she wasn't even naked, when he'd barely even touched or tasted her.

He'd had no idea.

She's a vice around him, muscles clenching even as he moves, slow at first, letting her body tell him what she wants. What she needs, if the way her hips lift into his are any indication. He makes mental notes of how she reacts. How she gasps when he circles his hips, glares at him when he slows down, and finally, how she arches from the bed when he hooks his arm under her thigh and lifts her knee against her torso.

"There," she pants, hand drifting down to his ass, nails digging, fingers squeezing, and he doesn't even care that she might leave marks.

She's the only one that will see them, anyway, because he has no desire to sleep with anyone else ever again.

Her hands don't stop moving even as he quickens the pace; they're in his hair, at her breasts, and finally one is between them, rubbing and pinching her clit. Her knuckles brush against his cock as he thrusts, and it's her gasp that she wants _more, faster, harder_ that pushes him over the edge, sloppy thrusts making way to jerks even as she spasms around him.

His arms give out and he collapses, manages to catch himself on his elbows before he crushes her. His head lands on her chest and he manages to smudge a kiss to her breast before he rolls off of her, mourning the lack of contact already when he slips out.

"That was-" he manages.

"Yeah."

They lie there for several minutes, sweat cooling, and when he thinks his legs can support his weight he rolls off the bed and heads to the bathroom. He wets a washcloth with warm water after relieving himself, but when he comes back out Kate is nowhere in sight.

"Kate?"

She steps from the office, pants on, blouse in hand, and she retrieves her bra and panties from the floor before slipping her shirt back on. "Good night, Castle."

He can only stare as she walks out of his room, until he hears the creak of the stairs as she ascends to the guest room. He could follow, of course, but he won't, he'll respect her privacy.

Hopefully, it's not a one time thing, he thinks as he drifts off to sleep a little while later. Because he knows that one time won't be enough.

He just hopes she feels the same way.

* * *

 _A/N: This is an already-written four shot, a prequel to a fic by Callie called "On The Nose." As usual, I am indebted to her for allowing me to run with this, and also for the lovely cover art. All mistakes are mine._


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

He's up early to see Alexis off to school and his mother to who knows where, spends the next hour debating on what to make for breakfast. Normally he'd go for pancakes, like a couple mornings ago, but the boys had teased him (and Beckett, she'd later told him) about his chosen breakfast food. He doesn't want to give Kate the wrong impression. So he takes a leisurely shower, mentally catalogues what he has in his kitchen, and downs a cup of coffee before reaching for bread, eggs, milk, and cinnamon.

He starts the French toast after he hears the guest shower shut off, has her coffee waiting when she pads into the kitchen. He studies her face, looking for any sign to how she might be feeling after last night. After they'd made lo-

No, not made love. It was sex. Judging by her quick departure from his bed, it was _just_ sex. Nothing more, nothing less.

To her, at least.

He'd barely slept; every time he'd closed his eyes he would see her, could still taste her on his tongue, smell her on his skin. He wonders if she'd laid awake as well, if her hands had also wandered south when she couldn't get it out of her head. If she brought herself to climax with his name on her tongue, like he had with hers.

"Morning," he greets her when she takes the warm mug from him, her fingers brushing his. "Sleep well?"

She lifts an eyebrow at him from behind the rim of the mug. "Like a rock," she says after she takes a sip of coffee. "You?"

"Same." He drops a few pieces of batter-covered bread onto the griddle and stares at them, so Kate can't see the dishonesty that he's sure his eyes show. He wills the food to cook faster so he can have something to distract him from his sudden awkward feeling.

What does he say to his best friend, the woman he cares about so deeply, after they'd fucked? _Thanks, let's do it again soon?_

Well, he wouldn't say no to another round, of course. But he also doesn't want to make Kate feel uncomfortable.

"French toast?" she asks, propping her hip against the counter at his side.

He glances over and notices that her mug is empty, plucks it from her hands to refill it. "Oui," he says, setting to work making her a new latte. He goes for the espresso this time; if they aren't going to talk about last night, the least he can do is make her a damn good cup of coffee.

He senses her behind him before he feels her hands on his sides; he lets her take the mug and she sets it down, turns him around to face her.

Her eyes are on his mouth, never waver even as she draws his t-shirt over his head and drops it to the floor. Her pupils are dark, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she slides her hands up his arms to cup his jaw and lift to meet his mouth with hers.

He hears her moan when their tongues meet, and he steps forward, crowds her against the island. She grunts and curls her fingers around his ears, tugging gently, trailing her mouth along his stubble, down his neck. The scrape of her nails on his chest makes him jump, and he takes a step back, shakes his head to clear the fog of arousal from his brain.

"Kate-we should talk," he manages to get out, but before he can say anything else she reaches around him to shut off the stove, unplugs the griddle, and takes her shirt off.

She's not wearing a bra, he'd noticed that when she'd come downstairs, and she's flushed already, nipples hard. "I don't wanna talk," she insists, her voice low, husky, and she approaches him again. "Just feel."

He tenses when her hand dips below the waistband of his lounge pants, and when her fingers wrap around him he hisses and jerks his hips. He's almost hard already, and her fingers make quick work of him, have him pulsing with just a few strokes.

He inhales sharply when she drops to her knees in front of him, hooks her thumbs in his waistband, and draws his pants and boxers down his legs. She leans back on her haunches for a few long moments, staring at him, and if he didn't know any better he'd think that the slow lick of her lips makes him even harder.

She doesn't say a word, just leans forward without any warning and takes him in her mouth. Her lips wrap around his head, one hand around his base and the other on his ass, gripping, in almost the same exact spot as last night. Her tongue teases his tip, and he groans, grips the edge of the counter so he doesn't bury his fingers in her hair.

She releases him with a _pop,_ immediately going back after taking a quick breath, lifts his cock so she can caress him with one long lick along his balls, his shaft, only to take him in her mouth again.

The noises coming from her are absolutely filthy, moans and groans as she takes him deeper and deeper into her mouth, until he hits the back of her throat and she swallows around him, engulfs his entire length. Her hands grip his hips and coax them into movement. He doesn't want to thrust too much; he's not huge, but he is above average, so he wants to make sure she can take him.

Judging by the way she hums around him, the way the corners of her lips lift when he jerks, though, not only is she having no problem with his size, but she's enjoying every second of this.

"Kate-" he gasps when he feels the build up, the familiar tug of his impending climax, "I'm gonna-"

He tries to pull out of her, his previous experiences having mostly been with women who didn't want him to come in their mouths, but Kate just abandons his hips, takes one of hands and guides it to her head, fondles his balls with the other. And as he tangles his fingers in her hair and pumps into her, she slowly draws her lips up his cock and abandons his balls to stroke him in time with her mouth, a satisfied hum escaping her throat as he spills on her tongue with a shout.

He slumps against the counter and he lets go of her head, rakes his fingers through his hair when she finally releases him and stands. He reaches for her, and his hands land on her hips, tug her to him, hold her in place as his mouth descends to hers.

He can taste himself on her tongue, and it spurs him on, arouses him, keeps his erection hard. He walks her backwards, the grunt when she hits the edge of the island reverberating through his entire body. Her fingers brush against his cock when she reaches for her pants, and he helps her unzip them, lifts her to the counter before pulling them down her long, perfect legs.

"Oh God," he groans when he sees her panties, dark with her arousal, and he runs an experimental finger between her legs. His eyes meet hers, and she's staring at him with such raw desire, that he needs her desperately, needs her body as naked as her gaze.

She lifts her hips when he grabs her panties, and then she's bare before him, legs splayed wide, an invitation that he'd be a fool to turn down.

* * *

She's magnificent.

He guides her to lie down, and he presses his lips to her ankles, his thumb tracing over the small elephant tattoo on the outside of one ankle as he trails his mouth up one calf. His hands grip the backs of her knees and he tugs, sits on one of the barstools that lives at the counter, and drapes her legs over his shoulders.

She gasps when he leans in close and exhales over her, resists the urge to stroke himself when he sees just how turned on she is. She's swollen and wet, and he can see her arousal, can see her slickness coating her inner thighs. He presses a kiss to her thigh, then another, and another, moves to her other leg and kisses up, towards her center, his tongue darting out to taste the trace of her on her thigh.

He almost moans.

When he finally allows himself to press his tongue against her sex, he does moan.

Loudly.

He gives her a long lick, his hands gripping her thighs, but the first press of his tongue against her clit has her hips bucking, and he has to press a hand at her stomach to hold her in place.

"Castle," she gasps, her hands finding purchase in his hair. She rolls her hips against his mouth, cries out when his teeth scrape her clit. "Shit!"

He just teases it with a few flicks of his tongue that have her squirming, then cursing and tugging his hair when he lifts his head to look up at her.

She's trying to glare at him, he knows, but her eyes are clouded with too much naked desire to be intimidating. So he just smirks at her, holds her eye contact as he descends again. His fingers part her as he delves into her folds, his teeth and tongue working at her, his arm not able to hold her completely still. Her fingers tighten in his hair when he slips one finger inside her, testing, teasing, and when he adds a second finger, eyes still on her, she throws her head back in ecstasy, one hand abandoning him to tug at her breast.

His fingers pump in a steady rhythm, slow, deliberate, and she's starting to lose control, is getting close to orgasm, if the way she starts to squirm is any indication. He slides his hand from her stomach to her breast, and his cock jerks at the sight of him tweaking one nipple while she works at the other.

He abandons her sex just long enough to stroke himself a few times, but he misses her immediately, has his fingers back inside of her within moments. His mouth never leaves her clit, tongue flicking, and when he slips a third finger in her, adding it to the mix without losing his rhythm, curling inside her in a way that has her tightening her grip on his hair and back arching from the counter.

"There- _fuck_!" she gasps, hips grinding against his hand and face, and he can feel her thighs clench around his ears, her inner muscles spasm.

If he was inside her, he'd be coming already.

Instead he pumps his hand faster, harder, curls his lips around her clit and _sucks,_ and she screams his name, hips uncontrollable as she comes, the evidence of her pleasure coating his hand and chin.

He slows his strokes as her breathing returns to normal, and eventually withdraws his hand, feels for a towel for a few moments before just wiping it against his own leg. His tongue continues to explore her center, bringing her down from what looked - and _felt_ \- like an earth-shattering orgasm.

She eventually has to push his head away, and he ghosts his lips along the jut of her hipbone, her stomach, sits up so he can reach her breasts. Her hands bracket his face and she descends onto his mouth, a filthy moan escaping her throat when her tongue meets his.

"Shit, Kate," he gasps when he pulls away, but she chases him, finds his cock with her fingers, spreads his precum around his tip and starts to stroke.

She strokes him just a few times before he pushes her hand away, and she smirks at him from beneath her lashes, takes a few steps backwards. "Shall we test your stamina?" she teases in a low voice, leading him to his bedroom with just the sway of her hips.

* * *

He has no idea how she manages to stand, let alone leave his bed, after their second— _third? Does last night count as the first?_ —round.

But just a few moments after he collapses at her side, she's sliding out from under his arm, leaving him a panting, sweaty mess.

Kate Beckett has never seemed like the submissive type, although judging by the way she'd begged for him to _just fuck me, Castle,_ hips squirming against his as he slowly entered her from behind, she can take just as much as she gives in bed.

He's tempted to follow her footsteps as she ascends to the second floor, but instead continues to lie there, one forearm covering his eyes.

He wishes she hadn't left.

He wants to tug her into his side, to curl his arm around her shoulders, press a soft kiss to the top of her head as they drift off, a tangled mess of sweaty skin. To wake her up in the middle of the night with the trail of his lips down her sternum, to be woken with her tongue at his jaw and her wicked fingers around his cock.

But something's holding her back.

She likes him, enjoys his presence, she'd admitted that a few weeks before. And she'd initiated their sex, had kissed him first, had her hands down his pants before he could even fathom what was happening. So she wants him, at least physically.

"You okay?"

He lifts his head at the soft sound of her voice, the chuckle that follows her question, sees her lips upturned in a smirk. He props himself up on his elbows and eyes the coat she's slipping onto her shoulders. "Where are you going?"

Her fingers - her nimble, talented fingers - fasten her coat buttons, and when she stops, his gaze lifts to see her staring at him, an eyebrow raised. "Apartment hunting," she says, like it's the obvious answer.

"Oh." He stands and goes to his dresser, grabs a clean pair of boxers. "Want some company? I can be ready in a few minutes."

He sees the conflict flash across her face, and he hopes she says yes, is desperate to spend more time with her. To peel the layers of the Beckett onion little by little until he knows everything about her.

After several moments she shakes her head. "I appreciate it, but it'll be boring. I'll be back in a few hours." She hesitates for a few moments before giving him a little wave of her fingers. "See ya."

Rick stands in front of his dresser, dumbfounded, boxers in his hands. _What the fuck?_


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

He can't get enough of her.

And, judging by the way she climbs into bed with him almost every night for the next week, she can't get enough of him.

Aside from their morning rendezvous in the kitchen, their days have been routine. She'd been off for a couple days, and then he was back with her at the precinct. She doesn't act any different than usual in public, and he follows her lead, is happy to provide the physical distraction she apparently needs. He has no idea what she's working through—they don't talk about it—but he's okay with it.

For now.

Most nights they return to his loft together, and she helps him with dinner, working together in tandem like they do at the precinct, in bed. If Rick didn't know any better, he'd think that she's comfortable at his home. With him.

He doesn't let himself think about it, about what it would be like to be with her, beyond her fucking him in his bed then retreating to his guest room. To be allowed to bump her shoulder with his while they wash dishes, to greet her with a morning kiss along with her coffee. For her to curl against his side or tuck her feet under his thigh as they watch a movie.

The last thought comes on her next day off, when Alexis is at school and Martha God knows where, as he and Kate sit on opposite ends of the couch, watching a movie. They'd solved an especially difficult case the previous day, one involving a murdered mother, and he knows how hard she takes those, had offered a quiet day in. She'd protested, claiming she needed to look again for a place to live, but he'd insisted. Her insurance hadn't been approved yet, anyways. _Even if you find a place now you won't have furniture. Where would you sleep?_

It had been weak, but she'd relented.

So he'd popped the popcorn and set up the projector in his living room - only the best to tempt her with - and senses her presence before she drops to the couch. They're separated by a few feet, and he sets the popcorn bowl on the cushion between them.

He isn't paying attention to the movie, only vaguely following the familiar storyline, his attention primarily on the beauty that he watches from the corner of his eye. He can smell her shampoo, or lotion, whatever glorious thing is that smells like cherries, and he feels the familiar stirring in his groin, feels his face start to flush. He's contemplating how to find out what it is, so he can buy her a whole case, when he reaches for the popcorn.

He freezes when his hand brushes hers.

His hand jerks back, and he mutters an apology, motions for her to go first. They're almost out anyway, he should make some more, but when he glances to reach for it again it's gone.

He sees the bowl on the coffee table as he lifts his eyes to Kate in question, and she's working on that bottom lip again, _dammit_ , and he silently begs his arousal to remain unnoticed until he can sneak away.

It's no good.

Her eyes flick to his crotch, and he sees her pupils darken, her cheeks flush, and before he knows it she's closed the distance between them, flung her leg over his, and is sinking onto his lap.

Her brow lifts when she settles on his thighs, and she rolls her hips against his growing erection, eyes flutter shut when he matches her movement and lifts his.

"Kate-" he says in a low voice, almost a growl, his hands just resting on her thighs, waiting for her - as usual - to make the first move.

Finally, after a few more slow rolls that have him groaning, she does.

Her shirt is the first to go; she draws it over her head in a movement that's so tantalizingly slow that he's unhooked her bra before it's even over her head. His shirt is next, a shudder racing through him when her fingers touch his skin.

When he presses his mouth to her breast, the thought crosses his mind that they haven't even kissed, but he can't complain, not when she's grinding against him with her fingers in his hair.

"Castle," she gasps when he bends forward, hands gripping her waist as she leans backwards, his mouth shifting to her nipple, flicking it with his tongue, shifting to her other breast when she groans and shudders against him.

He lifts his head when she shudders again. "Did you just-"

She gazes down at him, eyes wild, cheeks flushed, and abandons his hair for the button of his jeans. "Shut up and take off your pants."

* * *

Kate Beckett grinding on top of him, head thrown back in pleasure, her chest and neck flushed as she comes, might be the sexiest thing he's ever seen.

Well, second sexiest. The way her eyes snap back to his when his fingers swipe through her arousal may beat it. Her mouth is open and she gasps, and when a finger finds her clit and circles around it she grinds even harder, and as usual, he might come before his pants are all the way off.

She finally slumps against him as his fingers caress, gently help her come down from her climax. She isn't still for long, though, and slips her hand between them even as she pants against his neck.

He groans when she finds him, strokes a few times over his jeans before sneaking her hand into his boxers and curling her fingers around him. "Kate-" he groans, hips jerking up at her touch, and if he doesn't bury himself inside her _right now_ he's going to make a mess of both of them.

She must hear the desperation in his voice because she scrambles off him, allowing him room to slide his pants and boxers to his knees while she pulls her own pants off. She's back on his lap as soon as she's naked, and she grips his cock and sinks down on him with a long moan.

"Shit." His hips lift, _hard_ , and she cries out, drops her forehead to his as she grinds.

She's a velvet vice around him, and he buries one hand in her hair, keeps the other at her back, holding her on him as she moves on top of him. She rolls her hips, lifts, slams back down onto him, her movements unpredictable, and he can't handle it, can't help the feeling coiling deep in his groin of his impending climax. He won't last if she keeps it up, but then her mouth is on his, tongue doing wicked things to his, and she reaches behind her to fondle his balls.

He feels his climax approaching, feels his cock begin to jerk, tightens his grip on her and flips them, drops her to the couch without slipping out, grabs her waist, and just _pounds._

"Castle!" she gasps at the new angle, her hands reaching above her to grip at the arm of the couch.

He pistons his hips as his hands abandon her waist, curls his fingers around her wrists, pins her hands to the leather. "Are you-"

"Almost." She locks her ankles around his waist, heels at his ass, lifts her hips to meet his. "There," she gasps when he shifts his hips to thrust down, his pelvis hitting her clit with every pass. "Fuck!"

He comes as soon as she does, when her walls clench around him and her climax coats him. Continues to come when one orgasm rolls into another, when his fingers meet hers at her clit to coax one more from her. He finally collapses, spent, rolls off her as much as the tight space of the couch will let him.

He knows she's just using him for sex, and he's okay with that. But he feels himself fall for her even more than he thought possible with every passing moment. When she greets him with a shy smile in the morning. When she lets him steal her paperclips to make a stupid chain. When she kisses him furiously, moans into his mouth at night.

When she slowly opens her eyes, her pupils wild and hair mussed and lips swollen. When she curls her fingers to the back of his neck and pulls him down for a slow, deep kiss that, if he didn't know any better, would feel suspiciously like an _I love you._

It isn't that, though, because she doesn't. He's sure of it. As sure as he is that he wants to spend the rest of his life making this woman happy.

 _Oh...shit._

He's got it bad.

* * *

The moment he's been dreading comes just a few days later, when he's in his office working on his next book, and Alexis is at a friend's for the night. Kate had received a phone call just a few minutes after dinner, and had disappeared, until the soft knock on his door has him lifting his head.

"Hey," he greets her, saving his document before closing his laptop, and he stands, notes the furrow of her brow. "Everything okay?"

She slides her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. "Yeah. That was the manager of an apartment I looked at, it looks like I got a place."

He hesitates just a moment in his approach to her, but it's long enough that she notices, lifts her brows. "Oh, that's great. When do you move in?"

"Tomorrow."

 _Oh._

"I talked to my insurance earlier, and they approved enough that I should be able to replace all my stuff." She leans against a bookcase, folds her arms across her chest with a smirk. "Looks like you'll be rid of me before you know-"

He interrupts her with his mouth against hers, his hand cradling her jaw, holding her in place as he nudges her mouth open with his tongue. She moans, her fingers clutching the front of his sweater. She lists into him, slides her hands to his back, grunts when he pushes her against the bookcase.

He manages to tear his lips from hers, trails them across her jaw, down the long column of her neck. He stains her throat with kisses, his mouth open at her pulse, his tongue dipping into the hollow of her throat, tasting, trying to convey how he feels with the stroke of his tongue and the roll of his hips.

He doesn't want her to leave.

She needs to, he knows that; they're not exclusive, not living together, not even a couple. They're just friends who've been fucking almost every night for the past week and a half. She doesn't know he wants more, hasn't asked, but when he grips her thighs and squeezes, the unspoken request for her to jump into his arms, he hopes that the desperate plea of his body will be enough to get her to at least _consider_ something more.

He drops her to his bed and takes a moment just to stare. She reaches for his pants, but he bats her hands away, pins them to her sides when she does it again. Tonight, he doesn't just want a fuck, doesn't want her to leave after they both come.

He wants to make love to her tonight.

She seems to sense his desire to take it slow, and she scoots up to sit against the headboard, her eyes not leaving his as he follows. He hovers over her and dips his head, takes her mouth with his, caresses her tongue as he settles on top of her.

He takes his time to undress her, piece by piece, his lips trailing along the skin he exposes, smiling against her collarbone when she shivers, her navel when she squirms. He avoids her center, even as she lifts her hips to help him tug her panties off, drops her knees to the bed in invitation.

He starts at her ankles, his eyes on hers as he presses a soft kiss on her tattoo, the elephant she'd confessed had been a tribute to her mom. He moves to the inside of her other ankle, allows his mouth to follow the path of his fingers as he explores her body in a way he hasn't up until now.

The closer he gets to the top of her thighs the more she squirms, and he can see her, smell her even, but he doesn't give into her silent plea, instead follows the path of her hipbone. He places an open mouthed kiss directly below her navel, tongue darting out to taste her, and her hips lift, hit his chest. He chuckles against her skin.

"Not yet," he murmurs, pinning her hips back down as he continues his journey up her body.

He pays special attention to her breasts, having learned how sensitive they are, how much she reacts when he pinches and tweaks her nipples. It's no different tonight, and just a few flicks of his tongue against one hard nipple has her gripping his hair and holding his head to her chest.

He relents and slicks his fingers through her wet folds, slips two fingers inside and works her clit with his thumb. He pumps slowly, guides her through her climax, but even as she relaxes beneath him he can tell she wants more.

His hips roll, erection straining against the confines of his pants, but he resists the urge to free it, to relieve some of the pressure. No, right now it's not about him. It's about her. Showing her what it can be like, how he can love.

Because _oh,_ does he love her.

She tugs his head to hers, lifts into him, meets his mouth. "Please," she whispers into his mouth, her hips lifting, hands drifting to the hem of his shirt.

He helps her lift his sweater over his head, throws it to the side, kisses her once more before abandoning her mouth once again. He bypasses her breasts this time and goes straight for her core, settles between her legs.

One long lick has her gasping, arching her back, burying her fingers in his hair and holding him to her. He's thorough in his ministrations, teasing, tasting, exploring every inch of her sex before finally flattening his tongue against her clit. He flicks it with the tip of his tongue, and she gasps again, a strangled cry escaping her throat when he slips a finger inside. A second, then third, join, and he revels in the noises she makes, the movement of her hips as he curls his fingers inside her with one hand and grips her thigh with the other.

He guides her through a climax with gentle strokes and licks, and when she pushes his head from between her legs he finally allows himself to undo his pants.

She's tugging his pants down as soon as they're unbuttoned, has her lips around his cock before he even sees her move. He allows himself to get lost in the wicked work of her tongue for a few moments, but pulls out of her mouth when he feels the familiar tug of an impending climax.

He has no idea if they'll continue their sexual rendezvous when she moves out, so if this is their last time, he doesn't want to come in her mouth. He wants to be inside her.

She pushes his shoulder when he hovers over her, and he moves to his back, drops his hands to her hips when she sinks onto him. She clenches around him as she moves, rolls her hips, hands at her breasts.

He thrusts up into her, meets her when she lowers her hips, and her eyes fly open on a gasp, pupils wide as they catch his. She leans forward, propping her hands against his chest, and her hips roll, a whimper escaping her lips when his thumb finds her clit.

He's close, his climax building, and he works at her bundle of nerves as he quickens his thrusts, cranes his neck to find her breast when she throws her head back. And finally - _finally_ \- she shatters around him, and he stills inside her as he comes.

Much to his surprise, she doesn't leave him right away, instead collapses on him, her breath becoming even as she drifts off to sleep, her head on his chest and hand over his heart.

He manages to pull the comforter from where it's hanging off the bed, covers them before he follows her into slumber, his arms securing her to him.

A few hours later, he wakes to the lights of the city and the moon shining into his bedroom, and the other side of his bed is cold.

He's alone.


	4. Chapter 4

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

She shouldn't be jealous.

She has no claim to him, not after she'd used his body for the purpose of physical pleasure, because she wanted to feel _alive_ after the Scott Dunn case. Pleasure that he'd so willingly given.

She might have the right but she'd left his bed every night, many times as he slumbered beside her, and they hadn't mentioned their brief foray into friends-with-benefits territory to each other since it had ended. Hell, even when they were doing it. She just wants them to go back to normal, and he's obviously following her lead, not wanting to make things uncomfortable, if the longing in his eyes tells her anything.

So when a late night talk show host is found murdered and that second-rate actress fawns all over Castle, claiming that she needs "comfort," well, Kate has no right to be jealous.

Oh, but she is.

He must sense her displeasure when he saunters into the precinct on the second day of the investigation, because the shit-eating grin on his face disappears when he takes one look at her.

"Something wrong?" he asks, his brows furrowing in concern, and _goddammit_ why does she feel the first tendrils of desire unfurling deep in her gut at just the sound of his voice?

 _Simmer down, Beckett._

She just shakes her head and grabs her empty mug, turns on her heel and heads towards the break room. "No, everything's fine," she lies over her shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

Of course he follows. The man won't leave her alone.

Much to her surprise, she actually doesn't mind.

Maybe if he'd followed her upstairs one night, their relationship would be different. Not that they'd necessarily be _dating,_ because dear God she has enough on her plate without adding a boyfriend - no matter how much she wants him - to the mix, but maybe they'd actually _acknowledge_ that their relationship is different.

He looks at her with a new light in his eyes, a constant smirk that she knows is because of their newfound carnal knowledge of each other. But it's more than that. His gaze is tender, especially when he thinks she isn't looking, and it's more than just _I know what you taste like._ It's full of longing.

And oh, she longs for him too.

She longs to go home with him, to tease him in the precinct until he's ready to burst, to drag him into the empty storage closet on the third floor and have her way with him. To steal a kiss in the break room as he refills her coffee. To curl up against his side as they watch a movie.

But she won't do it.

She can't. Can't open her heart to the idea of him only to have him break it again, like he did when he looked into her mom's case. She forgave him for that when he finally gave her the sincere apology she'd wanted, when she allowed him back into her life. But the scar is still healing.

So she ignores his question, reaches for the coffee pot, steps away from him when he tries to take her mug. He obviously spent the night with that stupid Ellie Monroe, she won't give him the pleasure of making her coffee.

She pours her mug in silence, fuming inside, at him, at Ellie Mon-fucking-roe, at herself for letting it get to her. _Why the hell did he even come in today?_ She can feel his stare, knows he's watching her, studying her, and she tries to keep her face neutral, but after a few moments he gasps beside her and she knows she failed.

"You're jealous."

She scoffs. "Of what?"

He shifts to lean against the counter, crosses his arms across his chest. "You're jealous of Ellie," he teases, an infuriating smirk across his face.

Kate rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her coffee - her nasty, non-Castle-made coffee - before lifting a brow. "Why would I be jealous of her?" She tries to step around him, to go back to her desk to try and solve the murder, but he stops her with a hand on her forearm. "Castle."

He studies her face, and she returns his stare, tries not to get lost in the cerulean blue of his eyes, the sparkle that she's only seen disappear when in the throes of passion. It feels like he can see into her soul, and maybe he can, because after a long moment he drops his hands to her hips. "Yeah you are," he argues, encouraging her to turn to face him with the pressure of his hands. "You think I slept with her."

Kate continues to glare at him, even as she steps into him, slides her free hand up his arm to cup his elbow. She leans forward, watches his gaze drop to her mouth, his pupils darken as she leans closer. "I don't care if you did," she insists, dropping her voice. "You can sleep with whomever you want."

He doesn't resist when she steps away from him. "I didn't," he calls out when she's at the door.

She freezes at the threshold, her grip on her mug tightening. _I don't care, I don't care, I don't care._ "Oh?"

She listens to him approach, and in a few moments he's at her back, his hips just lightly bumping her ass and she resists the urge to lean back into him, to tease him.

His breath is hot on her neck when he speaks, and she can't stop the shiver that runs through her. "I didn't sleep with Ellie."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want her."

Her breath hitches in her chest, and she starts to turn when she hears her phone ring. _Saved by the bell._ "Well, she obviously wants you," she calls over her shoulder before picking up the phone. "Beckett."

* * *

She doesn't want to like Demming. But she can't help it; he's nice, and handsome, and she knows it's nothing for her, but she finds herself smiling at him, laughing at his jokes.

Castle has been as attentive as ever, refilling her coffee before it's even empty, even quieting his crazy theories when she gives him a look. But Demming's arrival into her precinct has him falling quiet, a little withdrawn, and Kate refuses to ask him why.

Besides, she has a feeling she knows the answer.

So she accepts Demming's invitation for a date, and a second, and before she knows it he's kissing her at her apartment door. Something stops her from inviting him in, though. She refuses to acknowledge that it's the nagging thought that _he's not Castle,_ instead tells herself it's because she doesn't want to move too fast.

But when she lies awake later that night with her hand between her legs and Castle's face behind her closed eyelids, she knows she's just lying to herself.

* * *

She doesn't know why she takes so much pleasure in taking Maddie to the precinct for questioning. Maybe it's because she doesn't like the way her former best friend was eyeing Castle. Or maybe she truly had motive for the murder.

Either way, when Maddie opens her big mouth and calls Kate out for being _hot for Castle,_ she almost dies of mortification.

"You wanna make little Castle babies!" Maddie says, amusement written all over her features.

"Maddie!" Kate hisses, and at least the other woman has the courtesy to look embarrassed when Kate tells her Castle is watching the whole exchange.

Castle just smirks when he meets her outside of interrogation, and she turns on her heel and storms back into the bullpen.

"Kate-"

"Don't."

"But she-"

"Shut up, Castle."

She meets Maddie for coffee after the case is closed, and her old friend wastes no time bringing up the handsome author.

"So, Castle."

Kate rolls her eyes, tries to hide the flush of her cheeks with a sip of her latte. "Yes. Castle. The thorn in my side."

Maddie smirks at her. "Thorn in your side, huh? If he was a thorn I bet he'd rather poke you somewhere else."

Kate sputters, almost choking on her coffee. "Maddie!" she hisses, glancing around, making sure nobody had heard her.

"I'm just saying," she argues, lifting her hands in surrender, "even if I wanted to, I'd have no chance. The man is smitten with you." She leans in closer, hands tightening around her mug. "Have you slept with him yet?"

"No." It's weak, though, and judging by the way Maddie's smirk morphs into a knowing grin, she's less than convinced. She'd never been able to lie to Maddie, and apparently even after thirteen years, that's still the case.

"Uh huh." Maddie drops it, much to Kate's relief, and they spend the next couple of hours reconnecting. When they have to leave, Maddie leaves her with a final piece of advice.

"You like him, Kate. And he obviously likes you," she says after a hug. "You should act on it while you can."

She doesn't, though. She keeps telling herself that they wouldn't work together, that their relationship can be strictly platonic.

Until one morning when she's hunched over her bathroom sink, trying to quell the nausea that churns, trying to remember the last time she had her period. She mentally calculates, and when she realizes that she hadn't had it since before her apartment had blown up, she mutters a curse.

It's been weeks.

Since before she was staying with Castle.

Sleeping with Castle.

 _Oh...fuck._

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you for reading! The sequel to this fic is whatifellinlovewith's On The Nose, so if you want to know what happens next, go read that fabulous one shot. She was gracious enough to let me run with this prequel idea, and also looked over this epilogue to make sure it tied in. As usual, all mistakes are mine._


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